Heard about the white people who are putting Mexican flag bumper stickers on their cars to waste iceâs time, and itâs like Ohhh! I get it now! When the government tries to hunt you or your friends for sport be bugs bunny! Be weird be tricky be cunning! Throw some red herrings their way! Like yes ice has a LOT of money but they are also very very dumb! Make their job more of a problem for them than it is for you.
Yes, exactly. This attempt at mass deportation is already incredibly expensive and a logistical nightmare for them. Any road block that can be put in their path increases the expenses and complexities. It burns their candle down just a little more. Eventually that candle will go out, and the faster we can make it happen, the better.
Grumpy yandere whoâs always glaring at other people and everyone too scared to even approach him. Whoâs always rolling his eyes and grumbling when you accuse him of being a softy on the inside but his arguments donât hold up when he gently pets your head when you doze off on his shoulder, or when you lean down to pick up something you dropped under the table and his palm covers the edge to protect your head from bumping into it.
Grumpy yandere who holds you as you cry over another guy, scolding you and saying âI told you soâ he acts like this was expected and that you should have known better but his hand flexes and slightly trembles as he tries to contain his anger.
The next day you you see angry red marks covering his knuckles and a strange text from your ex where he apologizes profusely.
You havenât changed your mind. He is a softie on the inside but heâs still terrifyingâŚ.
Serial killer yandere whoâs out spilling blood in the dead of night. He comes back home with the screams of his victims still ringing in his head, slowly cracking the bedroom door open to not wake you up, itâs actually a scary sight. A tall dark looming figure lingering around the doorframe. It would scare you if you werenât used to this by now.
You sit up and reach over to turn on the small lamp on your bedside table. You take one look at him and narrow your eyes, shoving the blanket off your body and making your way over to him, you lightly smack him on his shoulder and his entire body slumps, looking like a kicked puppy âYou got blood on your shirt again?! I told you to be careful! and whatâs this? Oh my- what happened to your hand?!â you scold him and he pouts; moving closer to sneak his arms around your waist and burry his face in your neck âIâm sorry darling..â he murmurs âIâll be more careful I promise. Please donât be angry with me..â He plants soft kisses on your neck and you relent, sighing and rolling your eyes âFine. Go take a shower. Iâm gonna stay up for a while longer.â
This ruthless killer who can crush someone skull with his bare hands canât bare to make you angry.
He might be the most terrifying thing someone could encounter on the streets but at home, all he wants is to have your attention, your touch, everything you have to offer.
Popular yandere whoâs always so fucking perfect. Perfect smile, perfect words, perfect manners. He always had to act perfect but around youâŚhe could just be him. You didnât expect anything of him. When heâs around you he feels like heâs completely undone. All the restraints that kept him in check all this time completely gone.
He loves you. He loves you so much. He likes that heâs a nervous stuttering mess around you. That you call him cute when heâs too drunk to say a coherent sentence. That you look at him with those understanding eyes and gently caress his hand when he confides in you about his pressure, all that his family expects of him. What the public expects of him. If it were anyone else they would have told him âhow good he has itâ or that âhe shouldnât complain so much because some people have it worseâ.
You listen. You treat him like heâs an actual human. Heâs addicted to how he feels when heâs with you and if anyone gets in his way he might just burn it all to the ground. The cars, the mansions, the expensive clothes, all the connections he made. Just to stay in your embrace.
He doesnât care if everyone leaves his side. They never meant anything to him. As long as you stay by his side heâs the happiest man ever.
Ex soldier yandere whoâs seen so much pain in his life. Whoâs experienced so much loss and so much hurt he canât even feel anymore. He spends most of his time drinking and being a complete and total ass to anyone who approaches him. It annoys him that people can be all smiles and giggles when thereâs nothing to smile about. Thatâs just how life is.
And you annoyed him most of all. You approached him one evening while he was drinking in that one dark corner of the bar and something about you made him tick. You had such a bright gleam in your eye and you looked so innocent approaching him out of everyone in that damn bar. As if you actually believed thereâd be good in him.
He hated it.
He was meaner than usual that day. Heâd usually throw a gruff âleave me alone.â and itâd get the job done but for some reason you pressed all his buttons when you barely even did anything. He figured it didnât matter as long as it got the job done and it did. You left with your shoulders slumped a pout on your face and he was alone once again.
Except you returned the next day and the day after that and every other day. It unnerved him so much he decided to switch to another bar. So there he was drinking alone in another gloomy bar in a similar dark corner. Everything is exactly how it should be.
Except..it wasnât. Something felt wrong. A nagging feeling in his chest, something he hasnât felt before. He looked at the empty chair besides him and your absence gutted him. So he gulped down the last of his drink and made his way back to his old bar where he found you sitting in his usual spot with random man sitting too close besides you, not hiding his intentions at all. And you..you were sad. You were throwing polite smiles at the man but he could tell by your eyes that you were sad.
Did you really have that look on your face because he didnât show up?
For some reason the thought of him being the one to bring you such sadness made his heart ache. Another thing he hasnât felt in a long time.
So he pursed his lips and made his way to you, and from his peripherals he noticed how you straightened up and your face lit up as soon as you saw him but he kept his eyes on the man sitting besides you.
He roughly smacks a hand on his shoulder making him jump in his seat âSheâs with me. Get your ass out of my chair.â The man narrowed his eyes ready to spit out a reply but ended up pursing his lips and getting up quietly after taking a look at his size. One thing that hasnât changed about him after going to war is his build. Something that comes in handy in situations like this.
He plops down in his chair with a sigh and gestures to the bartender to get him his usual. You readjust in your seat and flash him a smile âyouâre here!â He throws you a glance âOf course Iâm here why wouldnât I be.â you shrug and look down bashfully âI dunno I thought I freaked you out and made you switch to another bar.â He smile softly. You nearly did âNo..no. Iâm here.â And heâs not leaving you ever again. You nod and start your usual ramblings of your day. He guessed that was the official moment you became his âdrinking buddyâ as you called your self.
He thought you were annoying at first. You just wouldnât stop talking. Telling him about your day when he didnât even ask. But slowly he started looking forward to hearing your voice. It became the only thing that got him through his bleak days. You became the one who got him through all of his darkness. Like a tiny crack of light that slowly get bigger and bigger until itâs all he could see. You wormed your way into his heart.
His short grunts turned into him comfortably talking to you and the soft smile heâd usually hide behind his glass glass turned into grins. He was smiling so damn much round you. Something he hasnât done in years. And neither of you noticed the side long stares the bartended and some of the regulars exchanged as they witness this change in him. Heâs gotten a reputation of being this grumpy man whoâs always drunk and glares at anyone who even talks to him until you came along and suddenly heâs gone soft on you.
Only you of course.
His sunshine. His beautiful darling whoâll make it all better.
You made him alive again. You made him feel again. And heâll be damned if you ever try to leave his side.
I've got an idea, can you do something like the reader is mad at Sherlock and won't talk to him and he is doing something like drugging himself or taking excessive work load that's basically killing him and reader sees no choice but to go back to him? It's inspired by The lying detective episode obviously.
đ Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
đ Genre: Angst/Fluff
đ Summary: When Sherlock makes a grave mistake, can he come back from his error or has he lost you forever?
đ Word Count: 1824
đ Abbreviations: N/A
đ Warnings: Canon drug use by Sherlock
đ Note: Sorry this took so long to get here, I hope this is what you were looking for Anon!
He hadnât meant it. Surely he hadnât. Then again it was Sherlock. Did he ever actually think about his actions before doing them or did they just happen without thought of the fallout. Your life had hung in the balance as you had been used as a pawn. A pawn in one of his cases. As if your life had meant nothing to him, you were just a means to an end. Even now looking into his eyes, the fire burning in yours, there was no remorse, no regret.Â
âYou are clearly overreacting to a situation that was completely in my control-â
âI donât care if it was in your âcontrolâ Sherlock. You put my life in danger!â you argued back angrily. âDo you not understand that? If one thing, just one, had gone wrong, I could have died.â
âBut you didnât die.â He responded flatly, with no ounce of emotion in his tone. It was almost as if he hadnât heard what you had said. As if he hadnât comprehended the severity of the situation. Or he simply didnât care. A thought that shattered your heart into a million pieces.
âIs that seriously all you have to say?â you asked, voice now taking on a broken tone. âYou donât care do you? What would you have done if I had drunk it? If I had drunk that poison?â you waited. Waited for a reasonable answer, an answer that showed he cared. An answer that proved he actually felt something for your life.Â
âBut you didnât. I controlled it. And if you had, by some miraculous idiocy on your part. Then you wouldnât be having this erratic display of emotions that are clearly unnecessary.â You blinked. Idiocy. Your idiocy. Not his. Not his mistake. Not a reasonable mistake on his part. No. Your idiocy. You had no words. Nothing you could think of in your mind that could explain the rush of emotions swimming through you. To describe the hurt, the pain, the heartbreak at his words.Â
âRight,â you whispered. Your eyes brimmed as you silently grabbed your bag, stuffing your phone into the side pocket and grabbing your keys from the table. Your body turned towards the door, not bothering to take a second glance at the man you had spent four years loving with every fiber of your being. Not bothering to answer his call as he shouted down the stairs of 221B asking where you were going. Not bothering to reply to John as you passed him in the doorway asking you if everything was okay. Your feet moved on autopilot. Your phone buzzed in your bag as you walked.
You had walked for hours, going nowhere specific, with no end goal in mind. Your tears had since dried against your cheeks, your skin flushed from the cold. You hadnât checked your phone, you knew that the texts and calls had come from John, you doubted any were from Sherlock. As he has explained quite clearly, he hadnât done anything wrong. Your feet fell to a stop as you stared at the figure in front of you. His eyes, usually cold, held a warmth of understanding as he looked at you, his fingertips twisting the umbrella in circles.Â
âWhat did my dear brother do this time?â The light smirk on his lips was just for show. You had known Mycroft long enough to recognise his facade. Despite being the âice manâ Mycroft had come to like you. You were his favourite goldfish in a pond of goldfish.Â
âHe couldâve killed me.â
Weeks. Radio silence. He knew Mycroft had something to do with it. He knew that Mycroft had covered your tracks somehow. You werenât answering his texts, his calls. You werenât at your apartment. Your landlord had said something about a suitcase and leaving late in the evening. You were still paying the rent but you werenât there. He had tried your work next. An extended leave of absence. John had been badgering you about taking some time off for a while, you had been saving up your holiday days since you had started at the library, that seemed to have paid off now you wanted to disappear.Â
He knew going to Mycroft would be futile. He should have known that Mycroft was helping you in some way. âSheâs safe.â That's all he said. He knew where you were. He knew and he wouldnât tell Sherlock, no matter how much he asked.Â
He didnât know when the smoking started again, he couldnât pinpoint it with his hazy mind, the cocktail of drugs dulling the loud voices in his head. Dulling the memory of the argument. Sherlock had been over the argument exactly twenty-three times since you walked out and he realised you were missing. Each time left him just as confused as the last. Why were you so upset? You had been in the firing line on numerous cases, some worse than this. So why did this upset you so much?
âBecause this time, she wasnât complicit in your act.â The tone of his brother's droning voice echoed behind him. âIt seems you have finally pushed away the one person who could stand your games without being affected. How does that feel, Sherlock, knowing Y/N is gone?â Sherlock twisted angrily only to find an empty doorway. âMust feel agonising knowing you donât know where she is and I do.â He spun back towards the windows, the voice moving with every breath. But again, there was nothing. Sherlock stood, pacing, his eyes darting across every corner of the room. âYou lost her. Sherlock. Now youâre all alone. Again. In a world full of goldfish who canât stand you.â Sherlock whipped back and forth as the voice continued to taunt him.Â
Finally his hands grasped the cup that had sat on the mantlepiece. The milky coffee had turned an awful green colour, with fur growing steadily on the surface. He hurled the cup against the wall with a loud smash, mouldy coffee spreading across the sofa. His hands grabbed anything within reach, hurling it at the voice wherever it moved.Â
The banging and crashing echoed through 221B, so loud that Sherlock didnât even hear his flatmate speaking on the phone urgently.
âHe needs you.â The words spun around your mind continuously on the ride to 221B. You hadnât hesitated. You hadnât argued. You hadnât reminded Mycroft of the hurt Sherlock had caused you. You just moved. Just as you had that night. Just as you did whenever he needed you. Your heart couldnât take ignoring him when he was in need. Was he an idiot? Yes. Had he hurt you unimaginably? Yes. Did you love him? Yes. You hadnât answered Johnâs texts telling you how Sherlock was beside himself, you hadnât answered Mrs Hudson, or Molly or Lestrade. But Mycroft. Mycroft always believed in some ways he was above Sherlock. There was no denying that Mycroft often enjoyed teasing and taunting Sherlock. And if he asked you to help his brother, then there was something seriously wrong.Â
The cab had arrived at Baker Street in the late evening, the lights in 221B still on despite the time. Mycroftâs car sat outside the home of your detective, the front door open as he stood in the doorway, his eyes waiting for your arrival. The second the cab stopped, the shouting echoed down onto the street. Your feet sped forwards taking you up the stairs, you didnât listen to Mycroft as he tried to explain. You didnât stop when you found John standing outside the door of 221B using the slab of wood as a shield. Another smash. A crash. A shout.Â
You nudged John aside, despite his protests, and pushed the door of the flat open. The flat you had once called home, a safe place after a case, a place for you and Sherlock to talk about his cases, was now reduced to rubble. You dreaded to think what Mrs Hudson would say if she saw it. You assumed she hadnât since the light under the door of her flat was still off. She has spent the weekend on a holiday with her friends.Â
Your eyes scanned the mess for your detective. His chest heaved his eyes frantic, his hand reaching for whatever was in reach. His gentle curls which usually framed his face, stuck in all directions. It broke your heart all over again.
âWhat did you take?â Your voice seemed to cut through whatever was happening in his mind, his eyes finding you.Â
âY-You, youâre not here-â
âWhat did you take, Sherlock?â When he didnât answer, you stepped closer, your hands reaching for his, and gently prying his grip off of the controller which was already damaged, you knew this wasnât the first time the controller was being launched across the flat. The mirror had a massive crack in it and you didnât have the time to count all of the different breakages and smashes filling the place.Â
The second your skin touched his, he snapped. His chest slowing, his eyes focusing on you.Â
âIâm here, right here with you, okay?â you spoke slowly and softly. âWhat did you take?â
His hand fumbled with the corner of his pocket and you slipped the folded paper out, eyes breaking their gaze from his for a moment as you scanned the list. You reached back and handed it to John and Mycroft who had joined him in the doorway. You guided Sherlock to the coffee stained sofa, sitting him on the corner. âWhen did you take it?âÂ
âL-Lunch.â he mumbled. âThe voices wouldnât stop-â His body slumped forwards, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as you balanced his weight.Â
âJohn, could you take him whil-â
âNo, no!â Sherlock tightened his grip on your hands. âStay.â You nodded.
âJohn, could you grab me the Naloxone? It should be in the second drawer of the right nightstand.â You instructed with a smile.Â
âIâm not leaving, okay?â
âI-I sorry,â Sherlock mumbled against your shoulder. âI hurt you. I nearly- sorry.â You knew it wasnât perfect, you knew it wasnât an ideal apology. But it was Sherlock. It didnât matter how he said it, as long as he said it. He didnât apologise. It wasnât like him. So he meant it. But as John returned with the Naloxone shot, you forgave him. As you cleaned up the flat whilst he slept on the couch, you continued returning to him as he reached out in his sleep. Because he meant it. No one else would forgive him like you did, because no one else knew and loved him like you did.Â
He still had some groveling to do, but heâd do it in his own way. When he was sober, when he knew what was real. And youâd forgive him. Because he was your detective. He made mistakes, he made errors but youâd love him through them.
